Reassurance
by Heptagon
Summary: Harry Potter has a thing for long and creepy corridors. But in the end of this one he finds something beyond comprehension.


**Author Notes:** I like this one. Read and review to tell me whether you like it as well.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. I would like to own the idea of this story, but I can't be sure no one else has come up with the same on their own. But I do claim the corridor. ;)**  
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**Reassurance**

It was a long dark corridor. The dim light that came from the rather infrequent candles on the floor did nothing to banish the shadows and everything to emphasize them. It was the kind of faint light which made the atmosphere more menacing that it would have been in complete blackness. It let one see all the creeping shadows and lurking figures and at the same time made it crystal clear that the weakest breeze would extinguish all the flames and then the creatures of darkness would fly for their prey. Still, this light was not evil in itself – just very, very desperate and very, very hopeless. As if it was slowly bleeding to death.

A figure indeed made its way down the corridor. It was walking slowly and warily but not as afraid as one might think. This might have been because it had walked such corridors before and knew that fear would be of no help here. Caution, wary, vigilance – yes, those were crucial. But not fear, not fear.

Its steps were soft and motions careful – it tried to move without disturbing anything, not even the air or shadows. It kept its head still, facing forwards, but its eyes were darting swiftly, trying to notice all and everything to the smallest of details. They moved to the floor covered with an old carpet that once might have been red or even crimson, but now too worn and too dusty to show any colour or pattern at all. Then again, perhaps it was actually not a carpet but just thick layer of dust – this seemed quite credible. But whether there was something beneath it or not, it was old, tired and weary dust – too feeble to react to pressure and breeze with rising up to the air in small dense clouds, or even to sink down and preserve the footprints of the passing figure. It didn't move in any direction – just laid there, silently, still, as if it, too, was in the process of bleeding to death. But it still muted the thuds of footstep, and the figure, careful as it was, made no sound whatsoever.

Its eyes had left the floor already and travelled to the walls to examine the old and yellow paper covering them – it was torn and greasy, and dusty just like the floor. Pieces of it had come off and probably become dust in the end. If anything else in this corridor seemed dying then the walls were clearly already dead. As the skin peeling off from a corpse.

Above, where there should have been a ceiling, were only shadows creeping up to invisible heights. They, for one thing, were far from being still and weary. They danced as the candlelight flickered with non-existent wind, they rose up and they fell down like waves of darkness – they ran around, pursued each other, played their strange games. They were alive, alive and waiting – waiting for the time after the last flame had vanished and their rule would begin. Their rule, their catch, their prey. Those weren't the friendliest shadows, one might say.

And then there was the door. Great, massive door of dark oak with the handle of brass. No dust, no weakness, nothing of that kind. Not even the wicked liveliness of the shadows. This was simply a door, built for the purpose doors usually have – to separate one place from another. And it was good at that.

The figure had stopped and was eyeing it carefully with decent amount of suspicion. It hadn't noticed it approach, hadn't seen its outline starting to form out of darkness becoming more clear with every step it took towards it – and not because it hadn't looked. It had surveyed the way ahead quite intently – missing nothing and noticing a great deal, although not much of that had been worth seeing. The truth was that one moment there had been an endless passage stretching out into infinite darkness both ways, and at the next there was a door.

However, it didn't wonder long about the curious appearance of the door now in front of it, but reached out for the handle which felt cold as ice to the touch. The figure lowered its eyes and took in the narrow golden line beneath the door – light coming from the other side of it. It was only a ray, but even so it seemed brilliant, merry and tantalizing. It called out for anyone and everyone, especially after the half-dead hallway. The figure hesitated for a mere moment, then pressed down the handle and pushed the door open.

---

The room was large and filled with pleasant noise and happy laughter. It was also brightly lit by hundreds of little white balls which gave out soft and gentle glow – they hovered around in the air above like stars in midnight sky, only bigger, about the size of a regular snowball. The room was decorated in warm colours of red, beige and gold, furnished with small tables and chairs, also a few drawers, cupboards and the like. On the left an open door lead to another room, much like this one.

The figure stood in the doorway and let its glance roam over the view that had now opened up to it – taking deep breaths and squinting eyes in the brilliant light. It took in the appearance of the room and then focused on the spot in the middle – the source of all the noise and laughter.

That was a round table at which two persons were sitting, evidently drinking tea and having an amiable chat. Both of them were sitting with their sides towards the door so that the figure standing there could see their faces but they hadn't noticed it yet, engaged in their lively conversation. Their words did not reach the doorway but the nature of it was clear – they listened to each other with sparkling eyes, laughed merrily and gestured spiritedly. A meeting of two long-term friends it would seem.

But the figure saw their faces and its mouth fell open with shock and surprise, unable to do anything but stare.

One of the people at the table was an old man with long white hair and beard, robes of forest-green and gold, clear blue eyes shining happily behind half-moon spectacles. The other was dressed in black and purple, his skin unnaturally white and his fingers unearthly long. His eyes, though glowing with the same sparkle of his companion, were ominously red and narrow, his nose nothing more than two slits. He looked comfortable in his seat, although a little out of place. One would have connected him more with graveyards and dark hoods than tea and jolly conversation. But that was exactly what he was doing at the moment.

"More tea?" the older man asked, smiling.

"Yes, that would be lovely," the other one answered.

He stood up to reach for the teapot and pour them both another cup but with that his gaze wavered to the doorway and he noticed the figure standing there. For a second he froze and stared at the newcomer, his eyes flashing with something that hadn't been there before. Then it disappeared and his mouth formed a particularly broad grin.

"Harry!" his voice loomed out with mirth and power. "Come in, come in, and close the door behind you. Would you care for tea? We were just having some of it."

He raised the teapot demonstratively.

But Harry just stood where he was as if he had grown roots, trying to tell himself that he wasn't seeing what he was.

"Professor Dumbledore," he managed at last, his voice barely a whisper and words not more than a gasp.

The old man smiled.

"Step closer, Harry, and have a seat. Nothing is better than a hot cup of tea, or what? I hope your way here wasn't too uncomfortable – that corridor is indeed a bit dusty. It needs a bit of cleaning and redecorating, but I haven't come to that yet. I fear I sometimes forget its existance at all – memory plays these tricks when one gets older. But never mind that now, come and join our discussion. Tom here was just saying that… you remember Tom, don't you?"

Harry took one step into the room but stopped there. Both of them were now looking expectantly at him and though he felt the whole situation far too unbelievable and ridiculous, for some reason he thought he should answer.

"It is a little hard to forget the person who murdered my parents and is now after myself," he noted dryly.

"Good," said Dumbledore and poured out the tea. "Now come in and close the door behind you – it gets a bit draughty here otherwise."

---

Harry was sitting at the table and staring at his plate. It was of fine porcelan and rimmed with a line of silver, red and orange feathers drawn on its surface accompanied by golden stars. On the plate there was a piece of brown cake topped with white frosting and a single cherry. He looked at it intently trying to figure out how had he happened into this situation. He remembered the corridor but not what came before it, he remembered standing on the doorway and staring at the scene but not walking up to the table and sitting down. Plus, his mind didn't seem to favour him this day – it was as if someone had poured jelly into his brain so that it took forever for his thoughts to pass and form connections. All the ideas and realizations were there, but he couldn't quite grasp their true meaning. Not yet, anyway.

Someone tapped him gently on his elbow. He raised his glance and looked into deep-blue eyes, shining like the sun in summer sky.

"More tea?" came the soft voice.

Harry nodded, but didn't break the gaze. Somewhere there, inside those eyes of clear sky or tropic sea was the answer to his question – to all of his questions. If only he searched deep enough… even after Dumbledore had poured him the tea and looked away, he was still staring at where his eyes had been, forcing his thoughts to move faster, forcing the connections to be made. And then suddenly, without anything appearant causing it, the dam was broken and all the memories and facts flooded his head forming an enourmous whirlpool trying to swallow the whole of him.

Slowly he turned his head, fixed his emerald eyes on the old man to his right and announced in a firm yet more than a little shocked tone.

"Professor Dumbledore, you are dead."

Dumbledore turned to him swiftly and shot him a fiery, almost frightening look. As if he was forcing him silent. But after a moment the burning flames dissolved into gentle glow and friendly sparkle, and he sighed deep before answering.

"Do you remember what I told you at the end of your first year in Hogwarts? _To the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. _And, even though I say it myself, my mind is indeed well organized, and I can tell you I was right when I said that."

Some of the former, and momentarily lost after Harry's observation, joyfulness was creeping back to his eyes and face, and brought a warm smile to his lips.

"No need to worry about me, Harry. I'm doing quite well, as you can see."

That simple reassurance flicked another switch in Harry's mind, his eyes darted across the table and the next moment he had jumped to his feet, taking a step back from it.

"Voldemort!" he hissed through his clenched teeth and directed him a look of extreme hatred.

The named squinched uncomfortable under his gaze and turned to face him with an expression almost sheepish.

"Call me Tom," he offered. "Or Tommy, if you really must."

Dumbledore tried to muffle a snort at that.

Harry, oblivious to that, burst out the first accusation, his voice trembling with fury.

"You killed my parents. You tried to kill me. Many times. You had Dumbledore killed. You murdered and had murdered many others. And now you sit here, drink tea, and tell me to call you Tommy?" His voice had raised notably by the end of his speech.

He grinned again sheepishly, and Harry was overwhelmed be an irresistible urge to lunge at him, and inflict as much harm upon him as possible. Something on the table caught his eye and the next moment he had attacked his arch-enemy with a table knife.

---

"But he is the most evil, dark, horrible wizard in the world!" Harry objected.

"That may be so," Dumbledore fixed him with a stern look. "But here he is my guest, just like you, and that demands an appropriate behaviour from your part. And appropriate behaviour means you don't attack people with knives. Or with anything else. Now, I'm sure my friend will forgive you this little incident, but I deeply hope it will never happen again."

"Friend? But, he's your number one enemy!" Harry didn't give up.

"I have to correct you here, Harry. He _was _my number one enemy. Things change. Death, I have to tell you, is quite a life-changing event."

He gave a faint chuckle but stopped abruptly.

"Death is not a laughing matter," he stated severely. "But it does change one's perspective."

A sudden thought shot through Harry's brain which had apparently been cleared out of the previous jelly.

"Sir, if you are dead, and I'm here with you and _he _is here as well… Did the duel between us take place already? Am I dead? Is _he_ dead?"

It seemed quite incredible for he had no memory of it happening. But if it had claimed his life… well, at least, he managed to take Voldemort down with him – his task accomplished. The world was rid of Lord Voldemort. And of Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived No Longer.

"No, Harry, nothing of the kind," Dumbledore cut through his thread of thought. "You are just my guest for tea, that's all."

He paused for a moment and watched Harry's expression change, a wave of relief flowing over him, followed by confusion.

"It's a dream," Dumbledore gently explained to him. "You're sleeping, Harry."

"And _he_ is…"

"Tom is alive as well. You're just having a dream. And no, not that kind of dream," he anticipated his next question. "Just a usual dream. Or perhaps not that usual, but you know what I mean."

Harry sighed. Of course. It had to be a dream. Where else would Dumbledore and Voldemort drink tea together and have a friendly discussion but in a dream. Why didn't he think of it before?

---

Harry sighed into his plate. This was only a dream. He was alive, Lord Voldemort was alive, and Dumbledore was… not alive – and they were not sitting around a table having tea together. That was ridiculous – why in the name of Merlin would he be dreaming of such a silly thing? This is just a usual dream, he had said. Of course, if it were just a usual dream, all this would be his own imagination. Harry had never imagined imagining something like this – which gave him an idea. Stupid it was, but…

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," he suddenly spoke. "Do you know anyone with the initials of R.A.B.?"

Dumbledore instantly turned him his full attention and smiled mildly.

"If I knew, Harry, I could not tell you. It's a dream, after all, and even though the chances of you still remembering it in the morning are slim, you should not know things that you should not know. Yet."

Harry let his words sink in, trying to figure out what exactly they meant. If this was indeed the workings of his own mind, it was doing an awfully good job. Had it not been for Voldemort sipping tea and eating cake across the table from him, he would have taken the scene for a real one. Hell, he **had** taken the scene for a real one in the beginning, even with a tea-drinking and pleasantly chatting Voldemort.

A sound of knocking reached his ears. He swiftly turned his head towards the door he had come through and discovered it was not there anymore. He was staring at the door, or more precisely, at the place in the wall which had once held a door, with a mixture of surprise and confusion, when a voice rang out from the other end of the room.

"Sorry to interrupt you…" it said.

Remembering the other door he had noticed earlier, Harry turned towards it, finding a woman standing on the threshold. She was still quite young though not a maiden anymore, clad in sea green robes decorated with intricate patterns of silver. She had long brown hair that was loose and almost reached her waistline, adorned with delicate silver flowers and pearls. Her eyes were brown, too, and sparkling with the same amount of mirth and friendliness that was indicated by her gracious smile. She looked happy, sociable and kindhearted, but her posture showed a good deal of pride and self-respect as well.

Dumbledore had stood up and stretched out his hands to beckon her closer. Still smiling, she left the doorway and walked up to them, slowly and elegantly, raising her hand to briefly touch Dumbledore's before coming to stand right behind Voldemort, both her hands resting on his shoulders in a loving manner, her smile a bit broader and merrier.

She looked at Dumbledore for another moment, and Harry could have sworn he saw a flicker of warning in her eyes, but then she dropped her glance and turned to him instead.

"You have another visitor, I see, darling," she said and smiled at Harry.

Voldemort only nodded at that, but Dumbledore was the one to introduce them.

"Merope," he said turning to the woman, "this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Merope, Merope Gaunt."

"Merope Gaunt Riddle," the woman corrected without a smallest trail of annoyance.

"I apologize for my mistake, my Lady."

"That's all right, Albus," Merope sent him one of her lovely bright smiles.

Harry, shocked to the core, took a little time to collect himself before forcing out a polite greeting of "Nice to meet you".

Merope remained standing behind her son, as Harry suddenly realized, her smile contended and full of care.

"Why don't you join us, Lady Merope," Dumbledore offered.

"Perhaps I will," she answered cheerfully. "But I came to tell you that you have visitors, more visitors, that is."

"Well, ask them in them, Mother," Voldemort spoke for the first time since her appearance. They way he said the last word sent shivers down Harry's spine but Merope only laughed happily and hurried off through the door.

Harry turned to Dumbledore who spoke out before he had even managed to ask a question.

"Merope Gaunt Riddle," he said. "What an amazing woman, strong and determinded – managed to work herself up from the pit her father left her, restoring the family name and some of its fortune. Riddle still left her, however, although it was before she gained her wealth and society's reverence. She likes to use his name to remind herself the reason behind her great success – it did start as a form of revenge – to show him what she is worth. And that she did, that she did."

Harry nodded absently, his thoughts light-years away.

"Is that how Voldemort would have turned out to be if his mother had survived?" he asked at length. "But he looks exactly the same!" he exclaimed a moment later, looking at his pale skin and snake-like face.

"Nobody can tell what would have been if things had turned out another way. This is after all just a dream, Harry, don't forget that."

Calmed down a bit, Harry nodded, and a moment later, looking up, forgot it along with how to breathe.

Merope had entered the room again and behind her came two others – one was Snape and the other… auburn hair, emerald eyes – a smiling Lily Evans had stepped over the threshold.

For a moment, which somehow seemed to extend into infinity, Harry could nothing but stare. His mind was not flooded with water, his mind had been poured over with cement which had already turned rock solid. No connections, no thoughs, just a feeling of tremendous surprise that had an evil touch to it. This was not good, this was not good at all – that much he realized without thinking.

A lone sharp beam of lazer shot through the rock of his mind, and for a second time he grabbed for the butter-knife. But that was all he managed to do with it, other than firming his grip on it.

Dumbledore had risen again and this time moved towards the door to greet them.

"Ah, Severus," he said with a smile. "So nice to see you. And Lily, you look lovely! Good to have you here again."

The woman smiled, returned his greeting and moved over to Snape, placing her hand on his arm. If Harry had been in another state of mind, he might have noticed the gentle expression upon Snape's features, or the tiny smile he gave his red-haired beauty. Or the fact that he had removed her hand from his arm and lifted it to his mouth to caress it with a soft kiss before returning it to its previous position.

Blood streamed onto the tablecloth but Harry did neither feel it or care about it. His grip on the knife was deadly and it was cutting into his flesh.

Voldemort had followed Dumbledore's lead and went to speak with the guests as well. Both of them acknowledged him with a smile, handshake and even a brief hug from Lily.

A weak growl escaped from Harry's throat – it was one thing to see Dumbledore having tea with Voldemort, but another seeing his mother giving him a hug. And there was no doubt which was worse.

This was not happening. This must not happen. And should it continue happening, he must do something to stop it. His right hand rose, knife firmly in its grip, a thin red creek flowing down from it. Unaware of his movements, brain still not working properly, Harry begun to stand up.

But this time he was interrupted before he could take any action whatsoever. And this time he was not restrained by Dumbledore. She had moved round the table and now placed her hand on his shoulder, warmly, reassuringly. He startled and snapped out of his reverie, turning to look at her. Now she had knelt by his chair, keeping her hand on his left arm.

"It is just a dream," said Merope softly. "None of this is real. None of this will ever be real. And none of this had ever much hope of becoming real. It is but a dream. It is only a dream, and nothing more."

Harry focused on her, trying to recall the last time he had seen her, trying to understand the meaning of her words, trying to regain his composure, trying to recover his thinking, trying to find the reality from his mind and heart. And slowly but steadily it all came back to him, and with a deep sigh he lowered his hand and put the knife down.

"This is worse than my usual nightmares," he remarked quietly.

"Is it?" she asked suspiciously. "Is it worse than the death and destruction you normally dream about? The loss of good side and the victory of darkness? Is it worse than that? Is seeing people who would normally kill each other in a heartbeat sitting at the same table, staying in the same room, talking amicably and laughing together worse than witnessing your deepest fears come true?"

And as if on cue, laughter rang from the doorway and reached them, only in a muted sort of way, and when Harry raised his glance he saw that the room had changed its proportions, stretching a great distance to the wall which had been three steps away before. The figures standing there were distant, too far to even see them clearly. They felt unreachable.

"It's just so weird," he muttered, lowering his glance, more to himself.

"It's an illusion. It's not real… but is it that horrible?" her voice sounded sad.

"In a way, it is," he sighed. "But what does it matter if it's not real. None of it matters. It's just a dream."

She turned away when he tried to look her in the eye as if she was keeping a secret. They both fell silent and didn't speak for a long time.

---

"I should get going," Voldemort suddenly said.

They were sitting round the table again, Harry, Dumbledore, Voldemort and this time, Merope as well.

"It was nice talking to you, Tom," Dumbledore nodded his good-bye.

"Same here," the other answered and stood up to take his leave.

"I'm hoping to see you again, soon," the older wizard smiled.

"I will come if I can," he replied, kissed his mother good-bye and left through the open door.

All of them watched him go.

A little after that Dumbledore turned to Harry: "You should go as well, Harry."

Harry nodded and stood up, without any objection or remark, heading towards the door to the hallway he had come from. He really wanted to escape this nonsense and get some peaceful rest before morning arrived with its thousand troubles.

"Harry, one moment," he called for him.

He turned around and walked back to the table still saying nothing, but he raised his glance to look at him.

Dumbledore looked back, his blue eyes sparkling but serious.

"Remember, Harry, I told you this was just a usual dream," he began.

Harry nodded glumly and waited.

"It isn't," Dumbledore continued and shot him a sharp glance. "The situation, the place – that's a dream, but the participants are not just the fruit of your imagination. They're real. We are all real."

Harry was listening with his full attention now.

"Just some of us happen to be dead, and others asleep." He stopped and waited for his reaction, but none came. Harry did not know how he should react to that last piece of information. So he went on talking.

"Remember I once told you the ones we love never leave us, not even after their death? Well, this is just a simple reassurance that it really is so."

"You are real?" asked Harry incredibly.

"Yes, I am real, and Merope is real and your mother is real. Speaking of that, she is still very happily together with your father, who is probably playing Quidditch with Sirius as we speak. This, what you saw, was just a part of Severus's dream."

"Snape dreams of my mother?" he exclaimed with noticeable amount of venom. He isn't worth to even dream of her, was the part left unspoken, but somehow clear to all.

"They knew each other once. Long, long time ago."

Harry was full aware they had gone to Hogwarts together but the way Dumbledore had said it, he had meant something else. Something more. But fortunately, not too much more.

Harry let it pass. He wasn't sure he was capable of dealing with it, now or ever, and he most certainly didn't want to deal with it, not now, not ever.

"But if you're real, sir, couldn't you tell me…"

"No," he cut him off. "I couldn't. I can't tell you anything of the kind. It's not the way things are. You must find your own answers, and the dead won't help you because that is the way things are."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but didn't. He was suddenly so tired of all this, and wanted nothing else than to get away.

"And what was Voldemort's part in all this?" he asked wearily.

"Oh, Tom was dreaming as well."

"Voldemort has such dreams?"

"It was probably a nightmare," Dumbledore chuckled. "But you really ought to go now, Harry."

"Will I ever come back to… this?"

"I doubt it, Harry. You have your own life to live. In your own world. It isn't too good to mess with others. But remember what I told you. You are never alone."

Harry nodded again, turned and walked to the door, stepping into the dark and dying corridor without a moment's hesitation, and closing it behind him.

He never noticed the reappearance of the door, or remembered it was gone for a while.

---

"You shouldn't have done that, Albus," Merope said when he had left. "Messing with such things is not good, or right."

"It's quite unlikely he will actually remember it in the morning," he answered.

"Then what was the whole point of it?"

"He needed a reassurance."

"But if he doesn't remember…"

"Perhaps he will. Perhaps he will."


End file.
